Ars Longa, Vita Brevis
by 40socks
Summary: Rose thinks of an interesting way to spend the money she finds in Cal's coat, but she soon falls into the middle of a mystery that may lead to a way to remember Jack.
1. New Life

**Ars Longa, Vita Brevis**

**"Art is Long, Life is Short"**

**Seneca**

My foot nearly slipped as I took the first step off of the gangplank onto the pier. Though I thought my heart could shatter no further, I felt a little piece break off when I imagined how Jack would have laughed at my stumble. He would have smiled his crooked grin and immediately offered his hand to keep me from falling. But he was not here. I had to balance myself when my first step on solid ground had not been steady.

I dearly hoped that my misstep had not been an omen. My new life, free from the social constraints of my previous one, the life that Jack had paid for with his life, was waiting. I knew that I would have to start anew one step at a time, propelling myself forward. I owed that much to Jack. That first step should have been bold, dignified, and courageous, as if I were stepping into the world for the first time. Instead, it was a weak stumble. The stumble of someone who hadn't taken a step for days.

Really, when I thought about it, I hadn't taken a step in days. For what my step lacked physically, it held much symbolic meaning. I was stepping away--away from him. Crossing the threshold between old and new. It had physically been a small step, but I could feel it was really a large step of progress. The last three days on the Carpathia, which were roughly equal to the total time I had known him, I had done nothing. I could do nothing but mourn him.

But I had promised him that I would make it past that cold night. As I was thinking of him on the Carpathia, I realized that I felt dead. He had exchanged his life for mine. The only repayment I could imagine for the man I loved was to make full use of his gift. Starting with a new name, I was ready to begin my new life--in New York.

My next few steps were easier. I regained my balance and pushed myself through the crowd that had gathered. The first thought on my mind was my tiredness. After everything I had experienced the past week, the vast spectrum of emotions, I was physically and emotionally spent. I blindly walked through the vaguely familiar streets of New York until I came across a large hotel on a street corner that was offering shelter for Titanic survivors with no where else to go. I practically fell onto the makeshift bed in the lobby of the hotel and wrapped myself in Cal's coat that I was still wearing and one of the blankets they had given me when I was so numb on the lifeboat.

I quickly grew out of that numbness. It was practically as early as sunrise, hours after the tragedy. It seemed cruel that the world would actually continue to function after so much blood had been spilt in its ocean. When the sun had risen, as if it were any regular morning, I felt my numbness immediately dissipating. In its place, however, the pain came rushing, filling every inch of my skin. That's when the tears came. I knew that I would never be the same again, but after a short while, I realized--I never wanted to be the same again. Rose Dewitt Bukater would never exist again. Rose Dawson had taken her place. My life had changed. And I was immensely thankful to Jack for giving me the courage to change.

When I woke up in the shelter near the pier, I counted it as the first morning in my new life. I had dreamt of Jack's face the night before, and just the simple image had made me remember my promise to him. Just the clear memory of him was enough for me to want to live out my life for him.

I did not let the thought of what would happen when I no longer had a clear memory pierce my consciousness. Deep down, I knew that in the distant future, perhaps when I am an old woman, dying in her bed, that single image will not be enough to make me believe the last three days were real. The idea that I would ever forget him sounded absurd, but I still longed to have a physical reminder of the wonderful man, the first man I had ever loved.

That was when I remembered the diamond. I had discovered it just after I had told the steward my name, along with several fat rolls of cash. The necklace was not what I would have chosen to remember Jack by. It was nothing like him, gaudy, ostentatious, and irresponsibly indulgent. It also had been a gift from Cal. But Jack's warm fingers had been on the large blue diamond. I was in his presence the only time I ever wore it, and only it. I knew that the Heart of the Ocean belonged exactly there, in the heart of the ocean. I vowed that someday I would return it there, but for now, I was selfish. I was keeping it a little bit longer so that it could remind me of my love.

The cash was another problem. I knew as soon as I saw it that I would never spend it. Perhaps that was foolish and stubborn, but I wanted to believe that Rose Dawson would never accept help--financial or otherwise from Caledon Hockley. Instead, I wanted to plan something to do with it, rather than just setting it in the closet to gather dust or get stolen. I wanted Cal's money to support something that he would absolutely hate. A last act of defiance against my former life.

It was obvious what Cal hated the most--poverty. But I couldn't just walk down the streets of New York handing a twenty dollar bill to everybody who looked impoverished. That was simply charity. I wanted to give the charity to a cause that would make Cal's blood boil. When I realized what Cal hated second most, the brilliant idea clicked in my head. I pulled the black coat over my shoulders and ran to the train depot. There was a short line in front of the ticket taker's booth.

Soon, I found myself at the front. There was a man with a thick, chocolate colored mustache at the booth. I dug my fist into the pocket of the coat and pulled out a few bills.

"One ticket to Wisconsin. The closest to Chippewa Falls I can get, please."

"Where's that, miss?"

I had absolutely no idea. I closed my eyes and thought about everything Jack had told me about his hometown. The only thing I knew was that it was near the lake. "I'm sorry sir, I don't know."

"There are train stations in Milwaukee, Eau Claire, Madison, and Minneapolis. Where would you like to go?"

I wished I knew about geography. One of the Great Lakes divided Wisconsin and Minnesota, I was pretty sure, but that didn't really help me. "Which one leaves the soonest?"

"A train for Cleveland leaves this afternoon at three. From there, you can take the next train to Eau Claire." I decided that would be the best. I finished my business at the ticket counter and thanked the man. I had no luggage to consider, so I waited at the train station, quietly thinking about the life I left behind, the life I was beginning, and the bridge between those two lives, the love of my life, Jack Dawson.

Finally, the train pulled into the station. It was only fifteen minutes late by the large clock outside. I stepped into the locomotive and found my seat, finalizing my plan for Cal's money. As soon as I got off the train in Wisconsin, I would go to Chippewa Falls and make an anonymous donation at the local orphanage, in memory of Jack and his parents.

_A/N: I hadn't planned on writing another chaptered story so soon. This idea would not leave my head for days, so I decided to write a quick one shot to get it out, but the ideas kept multiplying to the point where that one shot would easily be 10,000 words. Instead, I am making it into a short chaptered fic. It will probably have about 5 chapters total. Keep your eyes peeled for another chapter, which should be coming very soon. Peace!_


	2. A Dawson Family History

My first impression of Jack's birthplace was that it was a quiet farming town. The center of town looked like a basic settlement. Skinny brick buildings lined the dirt road. Behind the main road, I could see a wooden bridge across a winding river. On the other side was a small hill covered in evergreen trees. Now, in late April, almost all of the snow had melted, leaving only a few small patches on the ground of the woods across the lake. I could still feel the chill in the air, though, so I tightened the black coat around my shoulders and turned back toward the town.

I passed once again by the buildings of downtown. I noticed a post office, a general store, an inn, and a tailor's shop. There was a carved wooden sign, listing the founding date, welcoming me to Chippewa Falls. Even soaking in the sights that Jack would have seen in his youth, it did not take me long to travel the entire length of the main road. To the East, there was farmland for as far as I could see.

I doubled back to take another look at the lake that had nearly claimed Jack's life when he was a boy. It was almost nothing more than a trickle, meandering across a bed of rocks. Compared to the Atlantic, which succeeded in claiming Jack's life, this little stream looked--insignificant. I took one hand out of the pocket of the jacket where I had become accustomed to keeping it and placed a finger in the flowing water. It was cold, just about as cold as the water I had experienced only two weeks ago. But this water was much lighter than the salt water. It flowed fresh across the rocks. The only thing my finger could feel was the bits of sediment the water had taken with it down the lake. I was finding it hard to picture the strong Jack that I knew having trouble swimming in this water. But he had only been a boy--

"Excuse me ma'am, are you alright?"

The voice startled me. A plain looking woman had just come from the back door of one of the shops on the main street.

"I'm sorry," I started, "I'm just--"

"You're not from around here?" she asked, but it seemed she already knew the answer. "I haven't seen you before."

"Well no, not really. Is this Lake Wissota?" I asked, indicating the water behind me.

"Lake Wissota? No ma'am, that's East about five miles or so, past the cemetery. This here's just melted snow from the mountains."

I was a bit relieved that that was not the lake that Jack had fallen into. It seemed much too serene to have harmed someone like him. I knew I wanted to see the lake, it was one of the few things I really knew about Jack's past.

"Are you staying for a little bit? Ol' Allen Richardson runs an inn just up the road. He'd be glad to have the company."

I wanted the orphanage to benefit from Cal's money, much more than myself, but the next train to California, which was where I was ultimately headed, didn't leave for two days. "I think I will look at the inn when I get back from the lake," I said. "Thank you for all your help, ma'am."

"Call me Lucy." she said, and then realized. "Oh! I guess we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Lucy Micel."

"Rose Dawson," I said. I searched her face for recognition as I said my last name. I had not decided my story in case anyone related my name to Jack's. At first I had wanted to say I was his widow. I certainly felt like it. I thought I owed his old friends the truth, but I didn't know if I was capable of telling the whole story so soon after it happened.

"Well welcome to Chippewa Falls, Miss Dawson," Lucy finally said, hinting that my name meant nothing special to her. I thanked her again and headed East toward the bank of Lake Wissota.

Lucy had told me that the lake was a five mile walk. It would be a long walk, but Rose Dawson was a much more physically fit woman than Rose Dewitt Bukater had been. With that thought in mind, I headed toward the farmland at the end of the little town.

The walk was easier than I had expected it to be. I passed quite a few large pastures, many with crops or dairy cows. The farmhouses were scattered across the sweeping green land, each was different from the one before it. I liked the quaint wooden houses very much. I hoped that in the future, after I had used my new found freedom to explore the world, I would find a small town like this where I could belong to a community of neighbors. Soon, I was passing a grassy hill. There was a clear area bounded by hedgerows. Near and arched entrance was a marker that I was passing the cemetery. As soon as I noticed it, I looked up to see the expanse of blue.

This could be nothing other than Lake Wissota. Though I could see the opposite bank, it looked very small. The dark blue water was moving in tiny waves, emphasizing the gentle wind that was blowing. It was grassy leading up to the water, with wildflowers budding by the bank. I picked a handful of pretty ones. This was what Jack remembered from his childhood. I walked over to a large boulder near the shore of the water and sat down to admire the view. The view that Jack had seen. I imagined that he had even sat on this same boulder, objectively viewing the lake for a sketch of his.

I did not know how long I sat admiring the lake. Though I probably should have been afraid of water--especially water so cold--I could not help but appreciate the beauty of the blue lake in the green pastures. I felt safe, hoping that Jack could see me from wherever he may be. I was aware of the cool wind blowing the longer blades of grass around me, but I did not feel it. It was not nearly as cold as the whistling wind in the Atlantic that turned my cheeks red and raw.

Eventually, I got up from the boulder and started wandering back to town. I would look at all of the farmhouses and the surrounding woods so that I could imagine how Jack spent his boyhood. Then I would go to the inn Lucy had told me about. Tomorrow I would find the local orphanage, make my anonymous donation, and continue on to California.

As I started back, however, I remembered the cemetery I had passed on my way to the lake. Jack had told me that he left the town just after his parents died and that he had no other family. I hoped that someone had taken care of the graves. I found myself walking toward the cemetery to check on his parents, the people I would have been proud to call my parents-in-law. I wanted to care for their graves, to meet them.

I gently closed the gate below the archway leading to the cemetery. It was a scenic area, on a hill overlooking the lake. It was not a large area, so after only a few minutes of wandering, I saw the two simple gravestones right next to each other. Thomas and Anna Dawson. They had both perished on the same day, nearly five years ago. The weeds were overgrown a little bit so I knelt down in front of Jack's parents and cleared the area. I set down the wildflowers I had picked near the lake in the grass near them.

"Well I guess I should introduce myself," I said to the two stones in front of me. "My name is Rose-- Rose Dawson. I hope that I can wear your name proudly, keep it alive. I think you should know that I love your son. I will for as long as I live. Hopefully all three of you are reunited. I-I'll never let go of my promise." A single tear fell down my cheek.

I stood back, letting what I had just told my parents-in-law, as I thought of them, reach them. Glancing around the cemetery, I wondered how many people buried here had left behind children. How many would be benefitting from Cal's money that I would be donating to the orphanage? I wished that I had asked Lucy its location, so that I could easily find it in the morning. I was so lost in my thoughts that I hardly noticed that someone else was standing right next to me.

"Have I seen you before?" I was startled out of my thoughts by the deep voice. "There aren't usually many visitors to this plot."

I turned around to see an elderly, portly man. "What?" I asked.

"My wife is right next to the Dawsons, I very rarely see anyone else here," he explained. "Allan Richardson," he said, extending his hand for me to shake.

"The innkeeper?" I asked, recognizing his name.

"Yes, now why have the Dawsons not had many visitors?"

His voice sounded almost like he was reprimanding the Dawson family--like he was reprimanding Jack for not visiting. Right now, I was what was left of the Dawson family. I wanted to tell him off for insulting my family, but I didn't think this was the place.

Instead, I simply said, "I'm just visiting. Do you by any chance know where the local orphanage may be?"

His face paled at my question. I quickly thought of everything I had said, but could not imagine anything that would make him lose color so quickly. I tried to give him a questioning look.

"Is--Is this about the Dawson boy?" he stammered.

The Dawson boy? "Do you mean J-Jack?" I asked weakly.

"Yes, that's his name. Are you looking for him? 'Cause if so, I don't think you'll find him at the orphanage."

What was he talking about? Why did he think I was looking for Jack at the orphanage? Even at fifteen, he was old enough to care for himself. He had told me that he'd headed straight for California, just as I was planning to do.

"What?" was all I could muster. "What do you know of the Dawsons?" I finally asked.

He gave me an appraising look, took a deep breath, and began. "When this town started, 'bout 50 years ago, it was just a small group of Homesteaders that banded together to create a community. One of the original men was Henry Dawson. His only brother had been killed at Manassas and his parents had died some years earlier. Henry had had nothing else back East, so he and a few others took their 160 acres, and developed it into the farmland you see out there," Allan said.

So Jack's grandfather had bravely traveled out west-- on nothing but Lincoln's promise of 160 free acres of land to develop. He had helped to form a town. At the same time my own grandfather had been hiring replacements to take his place in the Union Army. There was no question over whose grandfather I admired more. I hoped that the innkeeper knew more of Jack's family history.

"Eventually, the original folks had some kids, and then more Homesteaders joined until there was quite the town springing up. That's about when I built my inn and when Fred opened his store. We were the first two businesses on the main road. Anyway, Henry Dawson's son, Thomas soon inherited the farmland from his father. Henry had used it to raise dairy cows, and Thomas continued the practice. Soon, he had married Anna Harris from Milwaukee and they had a son."

I smiled at the thought of a young Jack milking a cow. I really wished that he could show me how. I nodded, silently asking Allen to continue with his story.

"It wasn't long before Chippewa Falls started growing very quickly. The main road continued to grow, as did the development of farm land in the area. The descendants of the original settlers were the closest thing we had to a local government. Luckily there were very few issues to resolve.

"The fire that took Thomas and Anna's lives was a few summers ago. There was some speculation that an arson wanted the land of an original Homesteader, but those rumors were quickly silenced. We found a burnt curtain right above a melted candlestick. It appeared that the Dawsons had just mistakenly left a candle burning. They both perished, leaving behind a young son.

"Some of the adults took their son in for a short while after his parents' deaths, but it was common knowledge that Henry Dawson had had no other family. They made arrangements to send him to the nearest orphanage in Madison. But before the plans were even completed, he had disappeared without any hint as to where he'd gone."

I thought I knew Jack well enough to know that his fifteen year old self would not want to be shipped off to an orphanage. He had a much more adventuresome spirit than that. he had told me that he had gone straight from Chippewa Falls to Santa Monica. I was about to tell the innkeeper where Jack had gone, when he spoke up again.

"No one had any clue as to where the boy went until about a year later. A letter, addressed simply to Jack Dawson in Chippewa Falls arrived at the post office. It held the official seal of the Governor's office. Chippewa Falls was such a small town that we had never before received much attention from the government in Madison. The whole town was curious about the letter from the governor, so we opened it. It turned out to be a thank you letter, signed by the governor himself. Jack had drawn him a portrait to hang in his office. The whole town remembered that the boy used to like to draw, so we were proud of him for getting his art displayed so prominently.

"That did help us decide where Jack had run off to, though. The governor was in Madison. He had heard us all talking about Sister Millie's orphanage in Madison. One of the ladies in town put two and two together. She was sure that Jack had gone to the orphanage. She just thought that he wanted to do it himself, to not put a burden on the rest of the town."

This did not sound like the Jack Dawson that I knew. He would not have voluntarily gone to an orphanage. He had told me that he went as far away from Wisconsin, both geographically and climate-wise, as he possibly could so that he would not have to think about his parents deaths'.

"No," I said, "Jack told me that he went to California."

"Maybe he went to California after," Allen continued, "But he was definitely in Madison to make the portrait of the governor."

I was very confused, but I could tell by Allen's expression that there was even more to this story. I beckoned him to continue, though I was still sure that Jack had been in California at the time.

"Then, only a year later, after the town had accepted that Jack was safe at the orphanage, he received another letter. What made it strange though, was that the letter was from the orphanage. Obviously Jack had had some contact with them, otherwise they had no business contacting here. But we knew he hadn't admitted himself as an orphan-- because the letter had been addressed to his parents."

What had Jack been doing in Madison? And why had he told me that he was in California during that time? Had everything he told me about riding horses on the beach been made up? I had to know where Jack had truly spent the last five years.

"How quickly can I get to Madison?" I asked.

"Train'll get you there firs thing in the morning," Allan said. "But why?"

"I have to see the orphanage," I said. "And the governor's portrait."


	3. The Orphanage

I reread each of the letters that the Chippewa Falls postmaster had saved for Jack. He had given them to me to hold on to when I told him that I was Jack's widow. It was very difficult to talk about the short time I had spent with Jack when the wounds were so fresh, but the people he had grown up around deserved to know. I still only gave vague answers to their questions, still stunned from the tragedy. I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to talk about Jack.

It felt strange talking about the man I loved so much. It wasn't shame--no, it definitely wasn't shame. Loving Jack was one of the first things in my life that I was actually proud of. I think the reason that I found it so difficult to speak of him was because I was _protecting _him. Keeping him sheltered within my fragile heart. I didn't want to expose him to the cruel outside world--the world that ripped him from me. I didn't think that world deserved such an amazing man. I was one of the few people still alive that knew him well. How I wished he could have touched a million more lives!

The creases on the two letters were well worn, I had folded and refolded them several times on just the short train ride. But it didn't matter, the words on the page didn't change. I knew that I should have been trying to sleep, but I couldn't forget what I had read in the letters.

The first was just as the innkeeper had told me it would be. It was a formal letter signed by the governor of Wisconsin, thanking him for the portrait that would hang in the capitol. What bothered me was the date at the top of the page. **November 1908. **It stared back at me. He had told me that he had been in Santa Monica during that time. But this letter proved that instead, he was in Madison, Wisconsin.

The second letter confused me even further. The people of Chippewa Falls had not opened this one because it was addressed to Jack's parents. I felt a little nosy opening it, but I considered it my duty as the--the thought made me cringe--last living Dawson. The second letter had been from the orphanage in Madison. The same one to which I was planning on donating Cal's money. The same one that the people of Chippewa Falls had believed held Jack. This orphanage housed a young boy named Walter. The matron was searching around for his relatives and had found and aunt, uncle, and cousin in Chippewa Falls. The letter asked them to come for their nephew. The matron didn't know, however, that Thomas and Anna Dawson, the boy's aunt and uncle, had perished two years before her letter was even sent.

As the train finally came to a stop, I was determined to get to the orphanage quickly. It was associated with Jack. Whether or not he had actually lived there, he had been nearby when he drew the governor.

The cloudy dawn was beginning to lighten the sky from black to grey as I approached the old brick building with a thick iron fence. I hurried through the cold morning, clutching both of Jack's letters and the cash I was planning to donate away from the wind. When I found myself at the base of the stone steps that led up to the large building, I froze. Would Jack really want me digging through his past? The building all of a sudden looked cold and menacing. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked up at the red and black bricks that formed the building. Though I was not even sure anymore if Jack would appreciate my donation to this particular orphanage, I had come all this way. I hurried up the three steps and left the money, wrapped in Cal's coat in front of the door. As soon as the bundle was on the ground, I turned around and ran, letting the tears fall freely.

I felt as if I were leaving a baby in front of the orphanage. But really, I was leaving so much more than that. I left the horrors of my past life. I left any potential I had to create a life with Jack. And I left Cal's coat, one of my only reminders of the disaster that had taken these lives from me.

I felt like I had been running for quite a while, though when I heard a small voice shout out, I turned around to see that I had not run far from the orphanage. The voice I had heard belonged to a very small boy. He had honey colored hair and sad looking eyes. His face was dirty but I could tell the grime covered a very fair complexion. He couldn't have been more than six years old.

"Excuse me ma'am," he said, in a shy and tiny voice, "I believe you dropped this."

I turned around to see that the little boy had Cal's coat in his hands. "No," I said, "It's a gift."

As I spoke I saw a skinny older woman step out of the heavy door of the large building and stand behind the young boy. She opened the bundle and I saw her eyes grow large. "What is this all about, ma'am?"

"I wanted to make a donation in memory of my late husband. I thought he would appreciate the money going here," I explained.

"Why here?" asked the woman, the matron of the orphanage.

"His parents died when he was young and he was from around here--out west a bit."

"Where out west?" The young boy asked, but the matron gave him a look to quiet him.

"And what was your husband's name?" The matron asked.

My curiosity was already piqued. I wanted to tell her Jack's name and find out for sure whether he had been here or not. But I was already not feeling comfortable in the situation. I had come to make an anonymous donation and move on to California and that was what I was going to do.

"I'd rather it just be made anonymously," I said. "I...um... don't have much more to donate and I wouldn't want people hunting me down for money." It was mostly true.

I was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. Both the matron and the boy were looking at me with adoration, but it was not me they should be admiring. It was Cal's money and Jack's memory. That was the true reason I didn't want my name associated with the donation. I was simply a vessel for Jack's adventures to continue. Without him I wouldn't even be alive.

"I have a train to catch," I said hurriedly, starting to turn around again.

"Oh posh! I can't let you leave without at least giving you a cup of tea," the matron told me. "Come in."

Though I was a bit uncomfortable, I could tell how grateful she was. Accepting the tea was the least I could do. One cup wouldn't hurt anything. So I followed the matron and the boy through the heavy door into the old building. There was a bit of a draft inside, but it was well built. The plaster walls and the large staircase in the entrance gave it the feel of an old library.

The two of us sat down at a small table in the kitchen. The matron walked in with a tea pot wrapped in a cozy. She poured each of us a cupful and offered me the bowl of sugar.

"I guess I've never actually introduced myself," she said as she sat down. "I'm Sister Millie and I run this orphanage."

"My name is Rose. But I'd still like that donation to be anonymous."

"Sure, dear."

We sipped our tea in silence, but I did enjoy the warm liquid.

"Who was that boy that I first talked to?" I asked, "He seemed very friendly."

"Oh that's little Walter Harris. He has quite the interesting story. He came here a little more than four years ago from Milwaukee. There was a passing reference in the newspaper to a family member of his not long after he arrived here. So I did a bit of research and discovered that he had family living nearby. He was very excited to learn of them. So I wrote a letter and waited. Unfortunately, they never came. Walter was devastated. He's never lost hope though. He's always been very curious whenever we have a visitor. In fact, I would wager anything he's listening at the door right now."

"How terrible," I said. I was truly sympathetic for this boy whose family couldn't be bothered to come pick him up from an orphanage. I knew all about bad family. I somehow felt connected to this young boy. Millie had been so nice to me. I wanted to be able to open up to her. I wanted to talk about Jack. I reached my hand into my pocket and fingered the two letters that should have been his and opened my mouth to speak.

But the words that came out were not the ones I was anticipating. "Walter _Harris?" _My hand was still closed around the worn letters addressed to Jack and to his parents. His mother was Anna Harris, from Milwaukee. The letter addressed to his parents had been from Sister Millie. Jack was Walter's family. The one that hadn't come to pick him up. The realization hit me like a brick to my chest.

I quickly stood up, tears falling from my eyes, shakily knocking over my cup of tea. "I have to go," I managed to mutter to Millie.

She immediately had a fragile arm around my shoulder. I wanted to shake it off, but I was to emotional to bother. She managed to sit me down in a soft chair and ask me what was wrong.

"Jack," I moaned. "Jack Dawson," was all I could say through my wild tears. Simultaneously, I heard a gasp and a shriek. Then the door flew open and a small yellow bullet, Walter, ran in.

"Rose, talk," Millie said gently, as she pulled Walter onto her lap in a chair across from me.

"I--I--Jack," I said. Tears were streaming. "He d-died, saving me. I came here to learn about his past and they sent me here. I love him." And I really did. It was almost disturbing that I loved him so blindly that I could love him despite his abandoning of Walter. But it didn't sound like the Jack I knew. There had to be a mistake. I knew it.

Luckily, Sister Millie could see that I was distraught so she took over the conversation. "Whenever we get a new child, I look through any family records to see if he has family. Walter had an aunt, uncle, and cousin up north in Chippewa Falls. He and I took the train out there one day and saw that the farmhouse was empty. Then, about three years ago, I saw in the local paper that a man with the same name as Walter's cousin had drawn a picture of the governor. I guessed that his family had been gone when I went to check on them. I cursed myself for not checking more thoroughly. That's when I sent the letter, but never got a reply."

I pulled out her letter and handed it over. "Jack's parents both died five years ago. The townspeople thought that he had come here. I wanted to learn more about his past."

"I'm sure you can find the microfiche of the newspaper at the library. And I always take Walter whenever I have business near the governor's office. He loves to look at his cousin's drawing in the lobby."

"Thank you," I said. I wanted--needed to see the picture. I said a very quick goodbye to Millie and Walter and left them. Though it was probably rude, it didn't matter. I was going to see a real reminder of Jack.

It was not a long walk to the governor's office. Both the orphanage and the office were in downtown Madison. I wiped my tears as I walked, hoping to compose myself a bit before I would have to face a receptionist of the governor. When I arrived, I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The inside of the building was marble, nicely decorated. My eyes glanced around the room, knowing they would gravitate to Jack's drawing. When I didn't see it, I scanned the room again. There were a handful of paintings, but none looked like Jack could have done them. Nevertheless, I looked at each of them. The second one I walked up to was a canvas painting of an old man with white hair. He looked extremely posed and fake. The background was red, and he was looking through a monocle. The caption read Robert M LaFollete, by J. Dawson.

It couldn't have been. This drawing was everything that Jack's weren't. It was pretentious and false. Jack had told me that he had never tried painting before. There was no possible way that Jack had painted this.

I was relieved. Millie had contacted Jack's family just based on the name in the newspaper. There must have been hundreds of people named Jack Dawson. Somebody else had painted this picture. The Jack I love had never set foot in Madison. He had been in Santa Monica like he told me. I couldn't believe that I had ever doubted that.

_A/N: Sorry about not updating in a week. Doesn't feel like a resolution? Good, it shouldn't. There is one more chapter in this story arc. Robert M Lafollette was a real governor of Wisconsin. He actually stopped serving and moved to the senate a few years before this story takes place, but there is a reason I used him. _

_Anyways, after this story is finished, I am CONSIDERING writing a brief sequel to The Impossible Wish. I felt I resolved it fairly well, but there are a couple of scenes that just won't leave me. If I can come up with a plot to string them together, I'll write them out. Thanks so much for reading. Peace. _


	4. The Governor

The tickets in my hand clearly stated that I was headed for California. I had to stop in Denver first, but in only a few hours I would be leaving Wisconsin. As far as I was concerned I couldn't leave it fast enough. Though Jack had grown up here, the only thing I found here was confusion. Almost enough to make me doubt my Jack. Someone that had the same name--because it is such a common name for such an uncommon man--had painted a portrait of the governor. This confused many people--the matron at the orphanage, the townspeople, and me. When I heard the whole story I had begun to think that Jack had abandoned his young cousin to an orphanage while he was out having his adventures. I knew I never should have doubted him though, because after one look at the painting of the governor I knew it wasn't Jack's work.

The painting was of an old man, intended to look aristocratic. The subject was cold, distant, pretentious, and almost menacing. I knew right away that Jack could not have drawn it. Every piece of artwork that he had shown me introduced me to the subject in a way only fine art could. Unlike this picture, where the governor stood behind a facade, the subjects hid nothing in Jack's pictures. I knew that someone else had drawn this picture. Someone else had abandoned young Walter at an orphanage.

After all of that, I was very eager to head to California. I was just glad that I had gotten rid of Cal's money. Though I no longer was sure that Jack would appreciate my donation to the orphanage in Wisconsin, I still knew that Cal would not approve. Waiting for the train, I pulled out my last thing of value, the Heart of the Ocean. Though I had been hoping to come to Wisconsin to find a real reminder of Jack, something that was not cold and ostentatious, I was leaving still with only this necklace to remind me of the man I love.

Ten minutes before the train pulled into the station, I still could not get the events of the last few weeks out of my head. The suicide attempt, finding Jack, loving Jack, the sinking, losing Jack, coming to Wisconsin, not finding anything in Wisconsin. I dug around to find a nickel so that I could buy a newspaper that would hopefully keep my mind occupied on other things for the train ride.

As I sat down in my cheap seat, and we were underway, I started to read the newspaper. I didn't notice any of the scenery we were passing. As I turned the newspaper to the second page, a small photograph of a young, dark-haired man stared back at me. The caption stated that the governor would be returning today from the meeting to welcome the newest state, Arizona. The man in the picture looked young and pleasant, so different from the frightening white-haired man in the portrait in Madison.

I was very curious about the differences between the photograph and the painting. I guess it just shows how much "artistic license" someone can take to make a subject appear so differently. I was again reminded of how glad I was that Jack didn't take that license. He drew what he saw and his drawings were so much better for that. But these thoughts were steering dangerously close to thoughts that were far too painful to think. I had left Wisconsin behind, the state and its governor, for California. There, the memories of Jack would be happier ones. Horses and roller coasters instead of orphanages and graveyards.

As I was skimming through the rest of the newspaper, the train eventually made its way into the Rocky mountains and to Denver. I had fallen asleep for most of the journey. I was a little bit anxious about stopping in Denver, because one of the few Titanic survivors who would recognize me, Molly Brown, lived there. I was pretty sure I could trust her not to send me back to my mother. I doubted she was even still in contact with her. I just wanted to start my new life fresh, without anyone who knew me before Jack. Though I knew it was highly unlikely that of all the people in Denver, Molly would be at the train station right now, I surreptitiously walked to the back of the train and snuck off, only to be met by a scene of confusion.

There was a rather large crowd of people gathered around the front of the train I had just exited. My first thought told me that it could be no one other than Molly. I walked around the back, hoping she wouldn't recognize me. But when I saw the man at the center of the crowd, I stopped in my tracks.

I thought I had been trying to leave Wisconsin behind. Looking up at the man, I opened my newspaper again to the second page. It was the same man. The governor of Wisconsin. The newspaper had said he was coming home from Arizona today. He must have also stopped in Denver. This was just too much, I was not feeling up to anything having to do with Wisconsin, especially not another mystery about why the governor looked so different from his portrait. The whole thing involved a different Jack. It should be none of my concern.

I quickly turned around and headed to the part of the station where my train for California would be leaving shortly. I was walking with my eyes straight in front of me, trying hard not to think of the man behind me. I almost didn't notice when I ran into another person, knocking his suitcase to the ground.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Miss--uh"

"Dawson," I said, my response coming naturally, almost involuntarily. "And it was my own fault--" I started to say until I looked up at the man I had run into. Him again. The very man I had been avoiding thinking about-- the Governor of Wisconsin.

"Dawson?" he asked. But I cut him off.

"No, I have no relation to the painter who made that portrait of you in the lobby of your office." It was rather rude of me, but I was fed up with this misadventure. I just wanted to go to California.

The governor gave me quite the weird look. "The drawing has returned? I'll have to thank Mr. Newton for returning it so quickly."

I just wanted to walk away, but instead I turned back to the governor. What he had said had been very strange. "What?"

"Oh, I've been in Arizona for the last two months. While I was gone, my portrait was sent to Washington so that they could build my statue. Though I was quite honored, I knew I would miss my portrait. I've just never seen a simple drawing that looks so lifelike. Mr. Newton in Washington didn't think he could have it back for me upon my arrival back in Madison, but it sounds like you've just seen it."

"Which painting are you talking about? The one I saw was--"

"Oh no miss, this wasn't a painting. I thought you had seen it since you knew the name of the artist. This was just a charcoal drawing that a young boy did for me years ago. By far my favorite picture of me--"

I had stopped listening after 'charcoal drawing that a young boy did for me.'

"Who--Who was this boy?" I asked, almost frightened that it would be someone different.

"His name was Jack Dawson. I thought you already saw that. He drew it for me about four years ago while I was taking a trip through California."

He had drawn the governor's portrait. Jack had drawn this man in front of me. I wondered if he remembered the intensity of his eyes, scrutinizing the subject, testing how to best put it on paper. Jack had done the governor's portrait. He had done it in Santa Monica. The portrait currently was in Washington, so that a sculptor could have a model for a statue. Jack had never set foot in Madison. Walter Harris was Jack's cousin.

"Oh my God," was all I could say at first. But what about the painting? The one that looked nothing like the man in front of me.

"When I was in the lobby of your office, there was a different painting above Jack's name," I said. "I knew it wasn't Jack's work. It doesn't even look like you."

"A painting?" He asked. "What did it look like?"

"Um--It was an older gentleman with white hair. He had a monocle," I began.

"They put the portrait of my father where my portrait was?" He asked, looking a bit annoyed. "Sometimes people are confused because we both have the same name and we both were governor of Wisconsin."

So there was a completely different portrait, one that Jack had drawn. It looked like I was going back to Madison.

"When did you say the charcoal portrait of you would be back?" I asked.

"Hopefully only a few days after I get back. Why do you ask?"

"I need to see Jack's drawing." was my simple statement.

"I thought you said you weren't related to the artist who drew my portrait."

"I said I have no relation to the person who drew the portrait that is currently hanging in your office. By your description it sounds like Jack drew yours."

"And how are you related to him? I was hoping I could find him to thank him again for my beautiful drawing, now that it will become a statue."

I took a breath, "I'm his widow," I said.

It took a few moments for my words to register with the governor. HIs look of sympathy was genuine.

"Come back to Madison," he said. "I'll show you the drawing. You can keep it if you'd like."

Though I didn't really want to accept his charity, I couldn't imagine how much I would treasure that simple drawing. I nodded a short assent.

Soon, I found myself back in Wisconsin. The Wisconsin that I had been so eager to leave. Before the governor took me back to his office to get the picture, I had one stop to make.

"Sister Millie," I called at the door of the orphanage.

"Rose?" she asked. "I thought you had left us."

"I'm here for Walter. I'm his family. I'll gladly legally adopt him if you want me to but--"

"That won't be necessary," she said. "The last of the Dawsons should stick together." She hadn't even said anything about the fact that Jack and I weren't married.

Walter, listening at the door as always, ran out to the front of the orphanage and into my arms. I picked up the young boy, feeling the motherly instincts that I had rarely felt before, and planted a kiss on his forehead. In my arms, right now, was Jack's flesh and blood. This boy was Jack's mother's brother's son.

"Are you my mother?" he asked.

I held him closer. "If you want me to be, sweetie."

"Did you know my cousin? The one who drew the picture?" he asked.

"Yes I did, Walter. And I loved him. I'll have to tell you all about Jack Dawson."

"Is that my new name? Walter Dawson?"

"Unless you want to stay Walter Harris, then yes, Walter Dawson, that is your name."

He gave me a very large smile. "I like it."

I knew that I would always cherish this boy as if he were my own son. We went to collect the portrait from the governor. He was sad to see it go, but he smiled as he placed it in my quivering hands. My eyes welled with tears as my shaking hand traced the outline of the governor's face.

"Thank you, sir," was all I could muster.

I held Walter close as we once again boarded the train to California, ready to start our new lives as Dawsons. We had an everlasting picture to remember Jack by. When I pulled out the Heart of the Ocean, I could no longer see Jack, only the greed that the necklace inspired. When we arrived in California, I threw it in the ocean.

I had severed all of my ties to Caledon Hockley and the first class and by doing so, I gained two new ties to Jack Dawson.

_A/N: Another story complete. I hope this one was bittersweet, just like the movie. The next story I write, which may take quite a while, will definitely be more upbeat. I have a few random scenes pictured, but no plot yet to tie them together. I'm sure something will come eventually, but bear with me as I take my time. Thank you so much for reading this story. Much Love, 40socks. _


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